When the Aurora Falls on No Man’s Land

Saturday morning.

I made plain oatmeal in the kitchen and fried a couple of eggs.

Ethan came out of the bedroom, yawning.

“Why are you up so early today?”

“Ethan.” I looked at him. “Can you stay home today and spend the day with me?”

He pulled out a chair, sat down, and took a sip of oatmeal.

“Sure. I don’t have a shoot today anyway. We can look at wedding venues at home.”

He took out his phone, ready to search.

Then his screen lit up.

It was Linda’s special ringtone.

He answered immediately.

“Hello, Linda?”

Linda’s anxious, tearful voice came through the phone.

“Ethan, my cat ran out! I don’t know if it climbed up to the roof through the window. It’s so cold outside. It’ll freeze to death!”

Ethan shot to his feet.

“Don’t panic. I’ll come over and help you find it right now!”

As he walked toward the entryway, he grabbed his coat.

“Ethan.”

I sat at the dining table without turning around.

“You promised you wouldn’t go out today.”

His steps paused.

“Linda’s cat has asthma. If we can’t find it, it could die. Finding the cat matters more. We can look at wedding venues later.”

“If you walk out that door today, we won’t need to look at venues anymore.”

My voice was very soft, without the slightest ripple of emotion.

Ethan turned back to look at me, his eyes full of impatience.

“Stella, when did you become so cold-blooded? That’s a life. Can you stop throwing a tantrum at a time like this? Enough already.”

Enough already.

Again, those words.

“Go, then.” I nodded.

He seemed relieved.

“I’ll be gone for two hours at most. I’ll be back by lunch to eat with you.”

The door closed.

I dragged the two suitcases out of the bedroom.

On the coffee table lay a checklist for canceling the wedding.

The plain ring was sitting on top of it.

I looked around the home one last time.

There was not a trace of reluctance left in me.

I bought a one-way ticket to Hawaii.

The moment the plane landed, I turned off airplane mode.

My phone screen lit up nonstop.

Ethan’s message popped out.

“Where are you? Stop making a scene. I’ll buy the tickets right now and take you to Iceland, okay?”

I looked at that line of text.

All that flashed through my mind were the 3,200 photos of the aurora that belonged to someone else.

There was no longer even the faintest ripple in my heart.

My finger tapped the screen calmly.

“It’s too cold. I’m not going.”

I sent the message.

Then I blocked him, deleted everything, and turned off my phone completely.

When I pushed open the glass doors of the airport, warm sea breeze rushed toward me.

At last, I left that February, four years overdue, forever buried in the cold snow.